The Visit
by DragonFang2011
Summary: Her yellow eyes were cold and unforgiving. "Don't talk about him," she hissed. "Who?" he shot back. "Dad?" Ryuga visits an old foe. Read and review!


**DISCLAIMER:**

I DO NOT OWN METAL FIGHT BEYBLADE OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS.

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Ryuga eyed the large white building in front of him with caution, as if a snake would bite him once he opened the door. Half of his being wanted so terribly to turn around and run, but the other part – a tad bit smaller than the cowardly one – told him to suck in his gut and get it over with. He took a deep breath and put a hand on the cold, metal handle. The glass door swung open.

He made his way towards the the front desk; however, it looked more like a safe haven – with glass walls above the counter tops and a small control panel – compared to the uninviting, eerie white walls of the hospital.

The man behind the glass started at the teen's entrance, and adjusted his rectangular glasses. "State your business, boy," he growled. "I don't tolerate tomfoolery."

Ryuga was willing to bet that the guy has had enough tomfoolery – working in a place like this, and fearing that one of the demented patients would get out and slit his throat with a paperclip.

He leaned on the counter until his elbows were touching the glass. "I'm here to see Hana Kishatu. And you'd better hurry up." A crooked smirk graced his features, amber eyes sparkling threateningly. "I don't tolerate people who make me wait, Arata."

Arata narrowed his eyes, turning to the computer. "You're her son – Ryuga – is that correct?"

Ryuga nodded, feeling his shoulders tense at the word "son." Barely.

"She's in room 107." Arata spun his chair around to hit a red button on the control panel. The glass panel beside the counter slid open, and the men on either side shifted nervously as the white-haired teen advanced through the doorway.

(A/N: I don't know what/how a mental hospital looks like/works, but I'll just use what I know from The Terminator and make up the rest, if I could.)

Ryuga heard the door glide shut behind him, and his long strides increased speed, each booted footstep echoing loudly on the tile floor and making it seem like he was alone in the building that smelled of desperation and drugs.

An occasional high-pitched wail reached his ears, and he would feel a shiver run up his spine.

He passed several workers, each dressed in crisp white uniforms and wearing grim expressions. The doors on either side of the hallways were see-through, and showed the patients inside; they looked sad, angered, wild-eyed, and stoic – Ryuga didn't dare meet their eyes.

He halted in front of the glass door labeled 107. He had to face her. It was the only way to lift the uncomfortable burden that was crushing him underneath layers of pain, longing, and yes, hate. The hate that had been instilled in his heart – developing, growing – until it was unbearable.

He recognized his mother, sitting on the thin mattress of the hospital bed. She was as still as a statue – the mane of bright red hair covering her tilted face. She looked up as he stopped.

Amber met amber as mother and son engaged in an intense staring competition, each taking in the other's features. Her eyes – nearly identical to her son's – were filled with malice as she broke her gaze, leaped to her feet, and slammed her fists on the glass. "How dare you come here after what you've done?" she snarled, sliding a pale hand through the rectangular hole in the door as if trying to strangle him.

"Hello to you too, Hana." He refused to address her as "mother;" she didn't deserve to be called that.

Apparently, the thought failed to occur to her. "Whatever happened to 'mother?'" she sneered. "Whatever happened to the pathetic begging, huh? Aren't you gonna run crying to Doji?"

Ryuga growled and balled his fists, turning his gaze to the floor. "That was twelve years ago. I've changed. And you haven't. Not really." The last line was barely above a whisper, and Hana had to strain her ears to catch it. She bared her teeth at him and plopped down on her bed. "Then why don't you get the f*** out? I don't want to see your f****** face ever again, b******!"

A tense silence.

Finally; "Was it worth it?" He was surprised at how steady his voice was, but it still quivered a little. He had expected it to tremble like an earthquake that he and L-Drago caused. Perhaps it was hearing his mother's voice again that calmed him, even though she sounded as mad as hell.

"What was worth it?" His mother sounded resigned and annoyed, maybe a little bored. Austere amber eyes glared at her once again. "Was it worth it?" Ryuga repeated more firmly. "Was the twenty million yen worth it? Worth losing your eldest son? Worth being thrown into a dump like this? Mothers don't sell their children to strange men. Doji was like a real _father_ to me –"

Her yellow eyes were cold and unforgiving. "Don't talk about him," she hissed.

"Who?" he shot back. "Dad?"

"F*** you!" she screamed, jumping up. "You murderer! B******!" She hurled more abhorrent obscenities at him as she slammed herself onto the glass repeatedly. "It was your fault he died!" she screeched. "You're fault! It's all your fault!"

Several white-clad workers yanked him away from the rage monster that was his mother; he growled at their rough gestures as they held her down, shouting orders to one another.

Ryuga turned around with a sweep of his white coat and stalked away. The weight on his heart has lessened; it was still there, but it was lighter – much lighter. Intentional or not, his mother had helped him – a fact that she may or may not be happy about.

"Happy Mother's Day, mother," he murmured under his breath.

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This is for Mother's Day.

Hope you enjoyed the story! Feedback is love!


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